Lonely
by Anexie
Summary: For most people, loneliness comes and goes. For some, it is ever present.


He woke to a room filled with semi darkness, his eyelids fluttering open lazily. He lay motionless on his back for a moment, concentrating on the touch of the silk sheets against his skin, then raised himself up onto his elbows steadily and waited for the fog in his mind to dissipate.

_Thursday Morning,_ his brain told him. _Product Review Meeting._

He looked at the clock on the table next to him. It blinked a seven and some zeroes back at him, then promptly started making a loud, annoying and consistent beeping noise.

He sighed heavily and slammed his palm on top of the machine, fumbling around until he hit the right spot, and the noise ceased. With one last glance towards the empty, rumpled sheets next to him in his luxury, oversized bed, he swung his bare legs out into the assaulting dry air and got to his feet unsteadily, and then padded over to his en-suite bathroom, stretching as he went.

The pipes gurgled and the shower hissed as he switched it on, but he barely noticed the sounds after having become so accustomed to the same pattern of acoustic assault each morning. He checked himself over in the mirror and the expected vision looked tiredly back at him – lanky and skinny, with a faded pair of under-eye circles. On some people, a slight darkened tinge beneath the eyes was quite attractive, and added character; on him, with his pale skin and slender joints, he looked like Death.

He stepped into the shower and closed the door behind him, raising his face gratefully to the warm water droplets, and pushed back his wettened fringe with one hand. The shampoo was cool and his fingertips rough on his scalp, and as he washed his hair he considered the possibility of wearing his fringe back all the time. His current haircut had been labelled 'too young for him', according to miscellaneous newspaper _x_; and admittedly, nearly all of the other businessmen he'd encountered had shorter, more sophisticated styles. They were all much older than he was, sure, but... perhaps it was time he stopped kidding himself of his youth. He was nearly thirty. He'd already plucked out a couple of grey hairs from his temples.

Plus, maybe a more fitting hairstyle would be the final push to prompting romantic attention.

Being a new prey in the business world had ensured lots of women – and men – practically jumping over one another to catch his eye. He'd enjoyed the fame and popularity, and had dipped in and out of all types of relationships as much as he'd pleased. A reputation had formed around him, which the media had fed off and ripped apart like vultures.

He'd thought that, using his place and status, he'd finally be able to find someone to care for, to love and keep by his side for reasons deeper than wealth. But despite all of his trying, he'd never found anyone to stay with him for more than a few months – the average amount of time it took for them to realise he was looking for more than sex – and after a long while, he'd just given up and simply secluded himself. He'd pushed his naïve delusions to the back of his mind, and instead buckled down into something more 'worthwhile', and more praised by his mother - his work. And, granted, sales and productivity had increased significantly. Thereafter, for a long while, he'd forgotten about the desire to love and be loved by another human being.

But little reminders still brought that desire, that _lust_ swirling back into the aching recesses of his soul. Little things. Things like the long dining table with all but one of the chairs that were never used; the empty left side of his bed each evening and every dawn; the imagining of bottles and potions and other foreign body care products nestled to his own soap on the shower's shelf.

He clenched his jaw and reached for the soap, and lathered it in his hands before going to work on his face, feeling the twirly bristles just beginning to poke through on his neck. Hands slid down to his shoulders, his chest... oh, how he missed that. The feeling of soft skin and polished nails and sweet, powdery scents enveloping his senses; the firm muscles and broad fingers and musk and sweat and _oh-_

His hands smoothed over his skin, feeling the ridges of his ribcage,delving into the dip of his waist, tapping a rhythm over his hipbones and following the pattern that had been traced so many times before. The water ran down his body in thin streams as his thumbs slid down the inner edges of his thighs, pointing to their target and moving closer and closer and-

It had been so _long_ since he did this. Working fifteen hour days ensured that any time in bed was allocated to resting. Such a long time, and it felt wrong, _sinful..._ but he wanted it. _So badly_.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, and wrapped his hand around his half-hard erection. He hissed out the inhalation he had taken through his teeth, tugging slowly upwards on his shaft, moving down again, pulling and stroking and creating unbearably unsatisfying friction.

Beautiful faces with dark eyes and flushed cheeks, hazy in the darkness, flickered behind his eyelids, and he unconsciously parted his lips and tilted his head to one side as his fingers teased his heated flesh, one hand _rubbing_ and _jerking_ and the other clenching into a claw and scratching a series of thin lines down the side of his stomach and grazing the top of his thigh. He pushed into his own touch, letting out a quiet, cracking moan, and raised his face to the running water, moving his hand to rub his thumb _hard_ across his slit and _ahh_-

The soap on his shoulders displaced slowly south as he worked himself, travelling on water down his torso, and he removed his hand from his erection for a second to scoop some of the lather into his fist before returning it to his arousal and continuing to move up and down, slick and slippery with soap. He tried to remember the feel of sex; the tightness, the heat and the wet- the memory was distant, barely touchable,but he still shuddered as his movements got faster, his grip a little firmer.

Another moan, louder this time, tried to force its way out of his throat but he hastily clamped one hand over his mouth and pressed his teeth into his palm. The housekeepers and cleaners would be already pottering around just outside his bedroom door; he couldn't risk his noises being heard, echoing round the sparkling, pristine, yet utterly _not _soundproofed bathroom. The entire staff knew he would most certainly have been alone all night, just like every other night – so it would be _highly _unorthodox for him to be making such sounds without some company.  
Not only is it highly unorthodox; it's incredibly _pathetic_. His hand stills for a fraction of a second as his fuddled brain surges with a flood of self disgust. Why has he succumbed to these... these petty _fantasies_? He has no _need_ for this act. There's still probably _plenty_ of people out there who would be willing to fuck him...he just hasn't found them yet. And if it came to it... he had enough money to hire some sort of escort for the rest of the _year_, never mind just a single night.

But his fingers keep rubbing and his hand keeps squeezing and tugging, fierce and fast and _rushed_, because he just wants it all to be over with. Short breaths make his chest heave; muffled whines and piteous whimpers tumble from his wet lips, his sodden fringe now once again plastered to his forehead. His wrist speeds up, and the heat and tension in his lower stomach builds and starts to crack – he climaxes with another quiet '_Oh..._', and slumps back against the cool tiles of the shower wall.

His eyes open slowly and warily, the artificial brightness of the bathroom light fittings piercing his retinas and forcing him to squint. He curls his nose up as he looks at his hand, and holds it under the running water to wash, and as his vision adjusts, he watches the milky liquid flow down into the drain. He shuts the water off, finally, and regains an upright posture. The glass is all cloudy and fogged up; he is encased in an opaque box of shame and loneliness. He opens the door hastily, and is embraced in shocking, grounding, cool and dry air.  
He shaves and brushes his teeth swiftly, and pats himself down with a towel, and by the time he's done all that, the mirror has stopped looking so misty. He peers closely at his reflection again, like he did before, taking in the almost scrawny torso and awkward limbs. He raises one hand to his forehead, rakes his fingers through his damp fringe and pushes it back. His face appears rounder, softer with more skin exposed – entirely_ not _the effect he was going for.

He sighs and lets the dark tendrils flop forward again. At least in public, he can hide his gangly form beneath expensive, outrageous clothing; cover his tired eyes with flamboyant glasses; disguise his immature haircut beneath tall top hats. In public, he can let his wealth do the talking.

In privacy, underneath it all, he's just a skinny, pale beanpole. No wonder they never stayed with him for long.


End file.
